Wednesday, May 20, 2009

Like sundialwork, Splotchy's The Beast With a Billion Tentacles (did we ever reach a billion entries?) is back to strangle us into sweet blogging oblivion. If you are unfamiliar with the rules, but are familiar with the English language, please read the following:

Here's what I would like to do. I want to create a story that branches out in a variety of different, unexpected ways. I don't know how realistic it is, but that's what I'm aiming for. Hopefully, at least one thread of the story can make a decent number of hops before it dies out.

If you are one of the carriers of this story virus (i.e. you have been tagged and choose to contribute to it), you will have one responsibility, in addition to contributing your own piece of the story: you will have to tag at least one person that continues your story thread. So, say you tag five people. If four people decide to not participate, it's okay, as long as the fifth one does. And if all five participate, well that's five interesting threads the story spins off into.

Not a requirement, but something your readers would appreciate: to help people trace your own particular thread of the narrative, it will be helpful if you include links to the chapters preceding yours.

The ground crunched beneath my feet. Besides my noisy footsteps, I heard only the sound of the gentle crackling fire behind me. Its faint orange light lazily revealed my immediate surroundings. Beyond the glow, there was total blackness. I whistled. I took the small rock I had been carrying and whipped it away from me, expecting a thud, crack or plop -- but a soft yelp of a cry answered. [Splotchy]

Failing to leap tall buildings of uneaten Nestlé Crunch and Krackel bars in a single bound, I had waded through them instead, the crunchiness of the candy adding to the crunchiness of the drought-stricken, pebble-strewn soil, elevating the aural to a heretofore unknown level of crunchiness, as if Dick Cheney himself were trampling the defleshed bones of third world refugee children scattered about his clawed feet, the dried marrow spewing forth from between shards glistening in the wan moonlight.

I shivered.

Silently thanking the Old Ones that I had decided to stuff my backpack with packets of instant coffee instead of those mini boxes of Rice Krispies or stalks of celery because those things are far too crunchy in comparison to things that are not like packets of instant coffee and all that Xtreme! crunchiness would've only disoriented my delicate sense of hearing, therefore preventing me from ever hearing the creature amidst the cacophony. Sore feet and a diet of nothing but caffeine and sugar for days and days. No wonder I ended up lost in this haunted quail preserve.

That feeble sound, I soon found out, was made not by a hideous hellbeast bent on tricking me by deceptive vocal prestidigitation into becoming its next meal, but by a meek, mousy, nearly hairless creature no more than three feet tall, almost like a midget hobbit dwarf with skin more pale than a made-up Twilight extra who dwells in a sunless condo. As it entered the camp, illumined by the rustle and pop of burning wood, I saw through the curling smoke that it was visibly frightened. I calmly gestured towards it, quickly pulling back, trying to reassure it that I meant no harm.

I've heard he's still unable to leave the secret fastness of his undisclosed location except by special transport for late night Fox tapings. The drivers have reported hearing him whisper from the clotted dark, 'Where isss my presciousss pressident and why doessn't he call?'